“You need fresh junk?” she wants to know.
I nod. “My case’s almost empty.”
“I brought something with me. It’s outside in the car.”
“Great.”
“Hauke?”
“Yeah?”
“Keep your eyes open for things that might be getting out of control.”
“I’ll try my best.”
“Lay low a little. Calm down the Arabs. Don’t antagonize them.”
“That’ll only encourage them even more.”
“The violence needs to be contained under all circumstances.”
“Cheer up,” I tell her. “When the going got tough last time, everything stayed inside the Ghetto.”
Natasha nods pensively. “If it just wasn’t for the crucifix,” she says. “It’s making me feel really uncomfortable.”
3
I live in the subway, station Samariterstrasse. Train number 5 hasn’t stopped in the Ghetto for a long time and the stations here have been closed off. But I’ve discovered an access to the tunnel system in a derelict building. Subways or sewers, I know my way around the city’s underbelly. It’s a good way to get from A to B unnoticed. As the intervals between the trains to Hauptbahnhof, the central train station, are rather short, I always have to be on the alert while walking the hundred feet or so to the abandoned platform of Samariterstrasse. From time to time police or security launch raids in the tunnels, but they leave me alone. One of the benefits of my job for the LKA is that it allows me to bribe the sheriffs with coke. I’ve made my home in the little ticket booth on the deserted platform, where I even have electricity and running water. Free of charge. My place is fixed up like a trailer: sleeping area, tiny kitchen, a crapper that even flushes, and a sofa. A kiosk about twenty yards away on the same platform serves me as my library, even though reading is not my only pastime down here. Every day I sit in the lounge chair I have pushed to the edge of the platform and watch the trains go by. When they slow down on approach to the station, I can make out the faces of the commuters, traveling from the boroughs of Marzahn or Hellersdorf to their jobs in Mitte, the heart of Berlin. Most of them are just dully staring ahead. But those who have window seats look at me, while I relax in my bathing shorts, my hand holding a cocktail from which I lift the little paper umbrella now and then to take a sip. Surrounded by rats and dirt. Temperatures inside the tunnel are cozy almost all year around. In the summers it can be downright humid. The working stiffs just gawk at me like at an alien. I guess to them it’s like catching a glimpse of a foreign world: the thrill of the Ghetto. The situation makes it okay to take a quick look into the abyss before having to face a day at the office. I even have a couple of fans—almost exclusively female. A brunette always presses a sheet of paper to the window. “You want to marry me?” it says. Funny, how daily rituals make people eventually become parts of your life. Maybe I’ll bump into her at Alexanderplatz one of these days and buy her a coffee. The thing with the rats was a bit of an exaggeration on my part, by the way. We’ve learned to coexist. When the occasional rodents come passing through, I usually toss them something. A piece of cheese or a bit of bread. Smart critters, they are. They learn extremely fast.
A little under three weeks ago I started sharing my little ticket booth with two roommates who otherwise would have been lynched by the Lemons: Lucas and Quasim. Even though it makes my place a bit crowded, the two of them stop the Diggers from taking over. Diggers? If you’ve ever lived below ground, you know what I’m talking about. Rough guys who feed on the city’s waste. Me, they respect, because I provide them with the occasional trip to a better world. I wouldn’t exactly call myself a Good Samaritan, but I don’t make empty promises.
Lucas is a Coptic Christian. His wife’s been dead for a long time. She got caught in the crossfire during some fight or the other in Syria and was hit by a ricochet shot. His son got killed that day, too. A real tragedy. Lucas doesn’t dare venture out into the streets, rather spending his days and nights inside the ticket booth. I can’t blame him. Like so many Copts, he’s been through an Odyssey of violence. And when he and his brethren finally managed to escape from Syria in the Twenties, they ended up being bullied by the Arabs in the refugee shelters. Looking back, I guess I was lucky to be taken in by the nuns in the orphanage. They didn’t suffer fools gladly, but at least you knew what to expect.
Quasim is less fearful than his buddy. He even goes out in the daytime now and then. He’s a Yazidi. I like to rib him because of his religion, but I always keep it nice. I’m just joking, I swear. These guys are Zoroastrians. A faith older than Judaism, Quasim claims. Alas, not any more popular, I usually reply. During the exodus of the Yazidi from Syria even children had to lend a hand, toting their ancient tomes. A story, which I find touching. The little ones saved their peoples’ holy scriptures from falling into the clutches of the so-called Islamic State, who saw the trek off with gunshots and grenades.
Living with the two of them can be a little trying at times. They simply don’t stop arguing. As much as I understand that they have valid reasons to hate the Lemons, I don’t want to come home to these bad vibrations after a long day of work. Lemons here, Lemons there. Blah, blah, blah. All the evils of this world, summed up in a book written in the seventh century. The Lemons will, step by step, turn Germany into a replica of Islamic State, the two of them insist. Lord have mercy with me, because their constant nagging wears me out. After thirty minutes I’ve had enough of their tirades. I hide my briefcase in a cavity under the floor-tiles, take off my Glock, and stuff a few units of coke into the pocket of my jacket. Then, I leave the ticket booth. My two roommates keep on bickering and don’t even notice I’m gone. I need a bit of space right now. Alexanderplatz is my first destination. When a train enters the station, I hop on the trailer hitch of the last car. On my way to Schillingstrasse I try to clear my head. Lights are gliding past, the shaft is filled with warm air. The smell of metal, sweat, and urine prevails. At Schillingstrasse station the train is searched for stowaways. The security guy’s Alsatian starts barking at me, but five units of coke are enough to make his master happy. Dope, the only currency immune to inflation.
I emerge from the stuffy subway station and breathe in the fresh air that’s blowing through the high-rise canyons of Alexanderplatz, where modern times have definitely arrived. Electro cars roll by almost without a sound, so that you don’t hear them coming. It always takes me a while to get used to it. If I don’t watch out, I’ll get myself run over one of these days. Blessed be the roaring combustion engine, that’s all I can say.
The young crowd can hardly wait for the night to start. The Globals, that’s what the rich are called nowadays, have taken over the most coveted spots of this city and travel to the restaurants in chauffeured limos. Showing off their posh girlfriends, of course. On the weekends, the Suburbians, out for their weekly whiff of the scent of the great wide world, mingle with the party people. During the week they have to stick to a tight budget to be able to afford a night of pretending to belong. Waxing, peeling, tightening. Bodies buffed and smiles frozen in a temporary pretense of worldliness. Giving the friend in their company the stink eye, when he breaks out in a sweat once he realizes that he can’t possibly compete with the trustafarians. Then follows the overwhelming fear, as it dawns on him that it might be the last time he’s taking his arm candy for a stroll, before one of the Globals makes a go for her. And on the street corners homeless people bear silent witness to the luxury problems of others.